Journal Entries
Three of Seven
Posted Nov 3, 2011
That's how many people we still have living in our home. Three. Of ~SEVEN~? Yes.
Dad, Mom, #1 Son, #2 Son, #3 Daughter, #4 Daughter, and #5 Daughter. Otherwise known on these threads as: B4, A---, I---, R---, S---, B---, and Y---. Which—if you look at it and squint—spells Bairsby. (That's not our family name; it's just a coincidental observation.)
Here's the math: 1 + 1 = 7. Ours is a "melded family." It's a yours-mine-and-ours arrangement. She brought #1, #2, and #4 to the marriage; I brought #3 to the marriage. Together, we brought #5 into the family.
Seven people, under one roof. The logistics of it was often staggering. I used to joke with A--- that "they come cheaper by the dozen." She was never amused by such extrapolation. Despite the often elbow-to-elbow living arrangements, we all survived to tell about it. We had great times; we had rough patches. We still love one another, despite more than one serious faux pas made while we grew up together.
About twenty years between the adults and the oldest child; eighteen years from the oldest child to the youngest child. I sometimes joke that having our youngest was like having our own grandchild. Our youngest is rarely amused by the thought. She's the one who instigated having my wife color my grey hair back to its earlier brown, a debacle resulting in the nickname "Paprika Spice" at work. Payback's a witch…or something along those lines.
One by one, we've seen them leave the nest. Our oldest daughter, S---, actually left us first, to be with her mother. She had a number of personal adventures along the way to today. Our oldest son, I---, actually tried "living on his own" with a friend's family, by coming to live in St Louis (from Iceland), just out of High School. It didn't pan out as well as he'd hoped, and he boomeranged back to us when we moved back to the States (to St Louis), after my final military tour of duty. When the time and circumstances demanded it, we sent both of our boys, I--- and R---, out into the world to start their adult lives, with the occasional bit of help. Our middle daughter, B---, graduated high school early via home-schooling and struck out on her own. Though she calls us frequently, we don't see her very often. Our youngest, Y---, still lives at home with us.
Extended family stats: I--- married first, to a wonderful lady with one girl. They've since had two more girls who are the cutest little things! R--- married a few years later, to a wonderful lady who had three daughters old enough for high school and college. They have a very comfortable lifestyle, and he's taking college courses in the medical field, to work closer to his wife, who's already a medical professional. S--- had an adorable little daughter, lost a prospective fiancé, then found and married a self-motivated military man. They enjoy life in California as (currently) enlisted members, with sights set on her husband becoming an officer (in the near future). Even though B--- has had a number of setbacks, she's now living a life in law enforcement. We're expecting Y--- to grow into her adulthood (sooner than most) and finally leave us with an empty nest. We can wait the few years before it happens, because neither of us is really ready to lose her just yet.
That's us. I know it's not an in-depth treatise of who we are, but—then again—this is the internet and I'm not inclined to give away too much. This is enough. At least it gives you a glimpse at the family dynamics that have fashioned a big chunk of my life. These events—marriages, births, household moves, et al—have tempered my demeanor and I'm certain some of those qualities show through in my interactions here. So you see, the persona you know as B4 is actually composed of inputs from quite a number of other people's lives. What a wonderful amalgamation!
B4itellyouaboutthesevengrandchildrenwehave...sofar
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Latest reply: Nov 3, 2011
B4 - NaJoPoMo 2 Nov 2011 - Personas vs. Personality
Posted Nov 2, 2011
Many of us have stepped into the NooHooToo, dragging our various on-screen personas with us. How many do you have tucked away? Take a moment to do an inventory. Where are they all located? Did all of them make the transfer safely? Which ones will you use in the near future? And here comes the most salient question I have for you on this topic: Why do You care?
I have a few ideas about it. Tell me if I'm wrong, or if you have different / additional reasons why these imaginary characters hold some intrinsic value to you.
These are my observations:
In essence, using a persona is acting. It's like walking onto a stage and performing improve with a set of guidelines. It's doing ad-lib for the crowd, using the cues and "straight lines" someone else feeds you, intentionally or inadvertently. It's role-playing. It's similar to character generation for an AD&D game, then speaking according to the parameters you've set for the character and responding to events in the environment.
Some folks use their on-line persona as a natural extension of who they are in real life. It simply gives them a "face" for others to get to know them as they are, just like directly developing a friendship with a neighbor or someone you meet on the street. For folks who do this, you typically find they are genuine and straightforward, the kind of person who doesn't often indulge in make-believe because they feel interrelations should all be "above board." That's not a fault or short-coming; it's the way they prefer to handle things. Truthfully, no smokescreens, able to make good valid decisions because there's no double entendre or second-guessing motives.
Conversely, using an on-line persona is like slipping on a costume for Halloween. Who among us hasn't thrilled at doing so in real life and then attempting to act accordingly? We're born into this life and we "play the hand we're dealt," but with a costume on we have the opportunity to change our station in life, the way people perceive us as a first impression, and we can experiment with a different mind-set in how we behave. Using a persona allows us to invoke Change.
With the façade of a persona, we can have a degree of anonymity. It can give us the opportunity to voice our opinions in a way we might not otherwise deem appropriate. It can provide a "buffer zone" when an on-line persona develops a reputation for responding in a certain way on particular topics, because it's not the person posting who is blunt, brash, or abrasive—it's his alter ego. Some people see it as a way to avoid the responsibility of what they say, by blaming their on-screen character for the breach of netiquette. This can be amusing if done with humor and a sense of self-deprecation; in contrast, it can grate on the nerves if it's merely an excuse to act deliberately rude to other people.
No matter why you use an on-line persona, the name (and the way you interact while assuming the persona) must have had an origin. Where did yours come from? Usually, it's a series of events that cause us to connect concepts and generate a new idea. It doesn't matter if the concepts are closely related or completely askew from one another; the fact remains the ideas came together in such a way you said, "Aha! That would make a really good name for me to go by while on-line!" What's your story? What bit of kismet, happenstance, or fate brought out the inner moniker we see on-line now? I'll show you mine if you show me yours…
Meet B4 and "his" alter egos: F19585?thread=8282573
This is kind of long and convoluted, so bear with me.
I was finishing my final tour in the military, at Keflavik NAS in Iceland, and one of the guys in my department was an avid James Cameron fan. He just couldn’t stop talking about all the work the man had put into his movie, Titanic. The kid was also half my age and shared a whole bunch of information about the new technology (at that time) of Blu-ray discs. He was so jazzed that the whole movie, Titanic, could fit on one Blu-ray, as opposed to having to spread it across several DVDs.
He got me so spun up on the ideas, I decided to do a little research on the Titanic. During the course of my searches, I stumbled upon an odd little site purporting to be dedicated to the Starship Titanic. The site was laid out like an on-line web presence for a real company building the most amazing and well-appointed luxury cruise liner to ever sail the stars. [http://www.starlight...i-bin/front.cgi] It later became this [http://www.starshiptitanic.com/ ] and shortly afterward turned into a PC game, and later still, a book written by the original conceiver, Douglas Adams, and his close friend Terry Jones, from Monty Python fame.
So, I did a look-up of Douglas Adams, because I’d read his books and listened to the audio adaptation of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when I was a might younger. Lo and behold!—there was an H2G2 website out there, with lots of bulletin board postings and forums, based on the Guide from DNA’s novels. The main idea was to put the compendium of all human information into the capable writing and editorial hands of the actual humans to whom all this information pertained. In other words, anyone who had an area of experience or expertise could submit an article to the Guide, it would be read, edited, and finally posted as an integral part of an ever-expanding tome of encyclopedic knowledge.
There were also the free-form forums for discussion of all manner of topics. One I blundered into had several ladies discussing the merits and drool-worthiness of the different character actors for the HHGG series. Several agreed the brilliantly blue-eyed David Dixon was the quintessential Ford Prefect in the BBC television series. Having light steely-blue eyes myself, I thought it a good springboard to register myself on H2G2 with a name commensurate with the whole milieu. So, after a bit of tinkering and finding a particularly alliterative combination, I signed on as Blue-Eyed BiPedal BookWorm from Betelgeuse Beta, in honor of the Ford Prefect character.
In due course, I found my way to one of the more prolific and long-standing forums on the site, Lil’s Atelier, a haven of good conversation and good netiquette. The regulars there, as in many other such bulletin board forums had a tendency to shorten the names of those they responded to, for ease of typing and acknowledgement. My moniker very shortly became B5 so it was a snap to know when I was personally addressed. That was okay, but at some point, my punny side kicked in and I recognized an opportunity for an extra shot of humor, as well as a running gag. I dropped the “Beta” from my on-screen name and changed my visible moniker to Blue-Eyed BiPedal BookWorm from Betelgeuse (aka B4[insertpunhere]). Thereafter, I always ended every posting with B4 and a witty crammed-together phrase dealing with the topic I’d just written. [see below] Clever, huh?
B4thefloodgatesopen&everyonetellstheirowntale
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Latest reply: Nov 2, 2011
B4 - NaJoPoMo 1 Nov 2011 - Writer's Blockhead
Posted Nov 1, 2011
Writers write. It's a truism, a basic principle; it's as natural and autonomic as breathing. But what happens to a writer who stops and figuratively holds his breath? Turns blue? Explodes? No, but in the mind of a writer it might feel like what's happening. It's not uncommon for writers from any genre to experience a dearth in production, a lack of output that can feel like a death of their abilities. It is common enough to have a name most everyone knows. Writer's Block.
Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing as a profession, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work. The condition varies widely in intensity. It can be trivial, a temporary difficulty in dealing with the task at hand. At the other extreme, some "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some have even abandoned their careers. It can manifest as the affected writer viewing their work as inferior or unsuitable, when in fact it could be the opposite. -- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Writer's_block, modified on 23 October 2011 at 08:34.
What's my involvement in all this? Over the half-century of my life, I've taken pride in being able to write well and do it in an orderly, interesting fashion. I've even had kudos from teachers, friends, and acquaintances about the 'visual impact' of some of my stories. So why is it—with all that positive affirmation—I still can't seem to produce volumes of text suitable for publishing and for climbing the Top Sellers List? Most ostensibly, it seems to be the fact I'm not a "prolific writer." In that respect I'm unlike many of the famous authors topping the charts today. My output is so sporadic, we'll be lucky if you and I finish this Journal Entry together. Read on. Find out if I held up my end of the bargain.
If a writer writes, is it a quantifiable amount of verbiage or text? If one could pin a number or an amount or a time-frame on it, surely it would make the task less daunting, and more attainable! I won't be the last one to tell you this: "It doesn't work that way." Yes; you can set yourself a particular schedule—a block of time each day—wherein you commit to writing. Yes; you can determine to finish a chapter or an event in a story. Yes; you can keep a running tally on a spreadsheet with graphs showing your daily progress. Yes; you can enlist with NaNoWriMo, NaBloPoMo, or even this NaJoPoMo to spur you to greater output. Do any of these methods work? Yes…and…No. Different processes work for different people. Try a variety of ways to combat the problem and determine which system works best for you. The main idea to hold onto is: You must write something…anything!
Start with Post-It© notes if you have to, but grow into using a notepad or PDA or another medium that's easy enough to take with you wherever you go. You've dragged paperback books along on your travels so you wouldn't be bored out of your skull while waiting in queue lines, haven't you? Well, instead of reading (which is a 'taking' activity), do some writing (which is a 'giving' activity). Scribble down 'what if' ideas for more than one story. Draw a 'word picture' of what the characters in a story look like. Debate with yourself what direction the plot will take and what twists it might plausibly endure. Use 'stream-of-consciousness writing' to flush out the detritus in your own head and see what little treasures you can sift out of the chaff. Approach your writing project 'tangentially,' trying to see it from 'outside' and looking at the details from a different viewpoint.
Am I loading you up too fast with advice? Let's back up a step and go slow, savoring a key element in the business of writing. You have to ~want~ to do this. Let me give one piece of wisdom called "The Four Ds." It stands for the concept of Decision / Desire / Details / Deliverance. I've purloined it from our ministry's bountiful supply of good advice. Perhaps you'd prefer to render it, instead, as Decision / Desire / Details / Delivery. The first thing YOU need to do is make a Decision. Do you ~want~ to write? Yes? Yes. Yes! Once you've committed to doing so, you'll be surprised at how your Desire will blossom and grow to work on it. When you feel the need to write, do so; take care of the little Details, such as putting pen to paper, or opening up the electronic document of your current project, and add something to what you already have. You'll see the number of words expand—perhaps in little fits and starts, but then in greater volume—as you continue to build the framework and the trappings of your story. Eventually, you'll have enough for what you consider the tale you wanted to tell. Then Deliver it to someone who can help you distribute it to a wider audience. Four Ds. The first one hinges on You.
Can I share a bit of personal stuff with you, by way of example? I've had the makings of a phenomenal love story—based on true events in my family's life—available to me to write for about seven years. I've compiled all sorts of historical information about World War II, my German grandparents, events that brought them together / took them apart / reunited them. I have an outline and detailed notes, plus several chapters written. It will be revealing, poignant, down-to-earth, and a very personal tale to which most folks will be able to relate. Why haven't I finished it? The truth: I make excuses, let other things get in the way, and have a general sense my relatives don't want me to publish it. And I've talked myself into believing I'm not a Writer in the true sense of the word.
So, for this story, it begins with Me. I have to Decide that I ~want~ to do this. I have a very good reason to do so. My Mother shared as much of this section of our family history as she could remember. It was a way for her to come to grips with some of the events and how she came to be where she is today. Without the sheer effort of several family members, and divine providence to keep them out of harm's way, I would not be here today. So, in tribute to my Mother, her Mutti, and to our Heavenly Father, I have Decided to press onward again. I'll do these monthly postings in my Journal, but I've already picked up the threads of "Empty Cocoons" once again, and I'm weaving a tale to honor these folks. When you see it Delivered, you'll know the other three steps were accomplished, too.
NOTE: If you'd like to have additional resources for writing, just ask me. I can provide a number of good items gleaned over the years from a variety of sources. Is this easy? Not necessarily. Is it "do-able?" Definitely. So talk yourself into it, make the decision to work with it, wrestle with it, hone it, polish it, and then present it to the world. Imagine the joy you will feel when you've accomplished your goal, and the joy you'll give others who experience the tale you tell. May the words flow freely from this moment on…
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Posted Jun 8, 2010
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Still Mostly Harmless
Posted Jun 3, 2009
[Chapter 1]
In the darkness of the bridge at the heart of the Vogon ship, Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz sat alone. Lights flared briefly across the external vision screens that lined one wall, however, not the lights he’d expected. In the blink of a Bugblatter Beast’s eye, just before his stylus made contact with the little squarish box on the demolition order he’d been impatiently waiting to tick off, the stylus melted out of existence. For that matter, his whole ship had done the same thing in that same instant, engulfed in a blinding white light that plumed outward and away from the point at which the Vogon Constructor Ship had once been. The various bits and pieces of the ship and crew added to this spectacular effect by sparkling and flashing like holiday fireworks. Strangely enough, there was one incongruous dark spot in all the scintillating light. A fluttering sort of emptiness that melded into the very fabric of space as the surrounding panoply of light and iridescence gradually lost its exuberance, then dimmed and faded into nothingness, leaving only a ghostly suggestion of an avian shadow gliding across the void.
In another corner of the WSOGMM, a large bat-like creature--in dire need of an orthodontist and a psychoanalyst--noted yet another “coincidental” murder perpetrated in a devious fashion by its tormentor, Arthur Dent. It began to howl in rage and frustration, the sound undulating, echoing, and reverberating in the stony confines of its collapsed cathedral. Then came a dawning realization and the scream transformed rapidly into a fit of maniacal laughter that sounded something like: “HhhhhhrrrrrraaaaaaHHHHHH… uh… ha… ha-ha-Ha-HA-HAAAA!” Gradually, Agrajag’s ragged wings and bony shoulders ceased to shake. In a startling revelation that drove out all his previous confusion and perplexity, he uttered one final plaintive sound.
“Eeeepp! What in the name of Kevin--?!” exclaimed the Grebulon’s Leader. He stood up from his viewing consoles, wondering what had gone so blitheringly wrong. It was exactly identical to, though completely unlike, the thought that had gone through the Vogon commander’s tiny curd of brain matter just a nanosecond before, at the receiving end of the going wrong.
Leaning forward in furious dismay, the Leader stabbed at the communications link button that put him in direct contact with the station manning the weapons turrets of the ship, and demanded an explanation from the crew. There was a brief flurry of activity: monitors were monitored, gauges were gouged, indicators were implicated, and databases were debased. The final outcome of the peremptory interrogations revealed that, though all the turrets had locked onto the exact coordinates specified by the precise calculations of the Grebulon’s exceedingly complicated computer system, every salvo had missed the intended target--the Earth--by .042 degrees.
This was caused, in a very small way, by the astronomical triangulation formulas provided by Tricia McMillan, whose mathematical prowess hadn’t failed her, but rather, had proceeded from her normal frame of reference. She was used to looking up from the Earth into the heavens, rather than away from Rupert (in the heavens) toward the Earth. Thus, in spite of having taken what he regarded as an extremely positive piece of action, the Grebulon leader conceded it had been buggered up beyond all recourse, and he ended up having a very bad month after all. Perhaps, he concluded, these earthlings weren’t worth all this bother. He transmitted a new course heading to the helmsman, switched off the television feeds, and put on a little light music instead.
[Chapter 2]
The lilting sounds of Elvis emoting the ever-popular “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Ground Hog” played discreetly in the background as Arthur Dent stared across the kitchen table. Trillian was bustling to and fro’, preparing some tea, while Random hunched over the table and fidgeted with several strands of her dark hair that hung down past her eyes. She had tried to explain some of what Arthur had missed after her departure, and--though he’d nodded once or twice and vocalized an understanding of the situation--it was plainly evident he was floundering with certain concepts.
“So then…if…no, when you…aah…stole--you don’t mind me saying stole, do you?--umm…Ford Prefect’s spaceship, that’s when you…err… How did you put that?”
“Re-pro-gram-duh!” mouthed Random, accentuating each syllable of the single word, hoping desperately Arthur would be able to digest it in that form.
“Ah, yes, re-proge-rammed the…Guide, then it… Say, what did you do that for?”
Random let out an exasperated sigh, which sounded exactly like the whistle of a teakettle. She and Arthur were both momentarily agape with confusion until they realized that the timing of her sigh and the boiling of the teapot shared no causal relationship. Trillian, however, recognized the cause. She turned off the stove’s burner with one hand, snatched a favorite potholder (embroidered with petunias) with the other, and bustled the container to the table to disburse the hot water among the teacups waiting there.
“Let me see if I can help explain what Random told you, Arthur, my dear,” she offered while filling each dainty cup. She had his full attention, not just because of her nearness and the light scent of her perfume. (Mostly he delighted in the way she let his name roll off her tongue, using just the right number of r’s.) “Remember when you spent some time on that one planet, Lamuella, and you were the Sandwich Maker for the village? You were really good at it, weren’t you? You came to know the most efficient way to put sandwiches together and the best way to layer the ingredients. You could almost do it autonomically, and you could just tell when something wasn’t quite right with a sandwich you or anyone else had made. Now suppose you had wanted to play a trick on someone by hiding some capers inside one of your sandwiches, couldn’t you ha--?”
“Why would I want to do something like that?” interjected Arthur, absorbed in watching the brown swirls released from the teabag as he idly began to stir the brew.
The fingernails of Random’s left hand scraped the tabletop as, simultaneously, she drew her clenched right hand to her mouth and bit down on her forefinger to keep from braying. Trillian gently placed her free hand on Random’s shoulder and pressed on.
“Suppose you wanted to get one up on a Vogon--?”
“Urk!” escaped Arthur’s mouth. His head jerked upward and snapped right and left several times, searching wildly.
“Now, now, dear, it’s only an example.”
“Must you use a…a Vog--…a Vogon in it?” stammered Arthur.
“For this example, yes. Now just follow along, dear.” She carefully set the teapot down and reassuringly patted his hand. “You don’t like the Vogons much, do you?”
“Not in the least.”
“And if you had the chance to muck up a Vogon’s--say a particular Vogon captain’s--day, you’d do it on the sly so it would catch him unawares, right?” pressed Trillian.
“No sense having your name all over a misdeed just to get yourself ejected into space, I’d think…” ruminated Arthur.
“So, then… Couldn’t you sneak some capers into the sandwich you’ve set aside for him--perhaps hidden among the trimmings like some sprouts, or salad, or--?”
“…or covered in splagberry sauce,” said Arthur, warming to the topic, “and situated between a slice of honey cured ham and a sliver of Perfectly Normal Beast. Why, it would never occur to a Vogon to check something like that…” His voice trailed off as something occurred to him. The significance of such a sublime intrigue battled it’s way across his face, to be chased back the other direction by his naïveté and general good-naturedness, which fetched up short and got its arse kicked back to where it came from. “My word, he’d only notice it after he’d taken a bite!” beamed Arthur with conspiratorial glee.
“In the case of the Guide,” interjected Random, “the Vogon didn’t notice the extra bit until he used it a certain way. Now do you understand?” she pleaded.
“Certainly, but how did you get the capers into the Guide?” Arthur’s revelations--seemingly all of them--had very short life spans.
[Entry from the Guide]
The majority of PhiloSocioHistorians of Antithetical Weirdness headquartered inside the eel skin handbag of one Hermoine Adelaide Hummous, as well as anyone on the Measurement Equity Rationalization Department staff of the Parisian Universal Proportions University, would certainly argue the point of how short a period of time that actually was.
Perhaps shorter than the inconsideration of a person who steps into the only available express check-out line just ahead of you, glances at the “12 Items or Less” sign, notices he has 27 items, yet unloads everything onto the register’s conveyor and blathers about tid-bits of his personal life to all the nearby patrons while simultaneously fishing through all his pockets for the requisite number of bills and coinage to pay for it all.
Certainly it was longer than the life span of the odd blue-tufted race of Tevegians from Coco Opus Theta. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy notes that this race of people has an improbably short life span, in that they die before they are born. The first interstellar explorers of their planet were led to surmise the buildings and other structures they found were from a civilization that had died out millennia earlier, though with a prepaid long-term cleaning contract. The Tevegians, however, did indeed construct it all and continue to build their civilization, though they each expire before they actually get to enjoy the fruits of their labor. The metaphysical ramifications of such a group of beings…
[End Guide Entry]
“No, no, No, no, NO!” shouted the frustrated girl, clutching the hair on both sides of her head and rising abruptly from her chair. Her hip nudged the table and sent the cups clattering, sloshing tea into the saucers and onto the tablecloth. She stumbled in an attempt to leave the kitchen and Trillian was there to catch her, burying the child’s distraught face into her bosom. Arthur stood, as well. He sidled up beside the two and tentatively reached out to Random’s shoulder. Trillian’s eyes affirmed his action, shifting from an imploring gaze into his eyes, then dropping to look at the top of Random’s head. Arthur encircled both his ladies in an embrace and rocked them gently for a while. Gradually, the raging heat he’d encountered when he first touched Random began to subside. She raised her chin and peeked out from under the fringe of her dark hair, glaring at him.
“I…I made a few changes…to the instructions that make the Guide function the way it does,” stated Random flatly. She confided uncertainly, her voice rising gradually, “I’m just better…with software…than with hardware. You saw what I did to your watch! I used to think a virtual environment…was the only place I’d fit. I just…want…to fit! Someplace! Some time! And so far, the synthetic lifestyle of the electric clubs and my experiments in programming have been the only niche where I do fit!”
“There, there, my big girl,” said Trillian, stroking Random’s hair. “You fit just fine right here in our arms, don’t you?”
There was a muffled assent as the teenage girl nuzzled into the comfort of the arms surrounding her.
“So you tampered with the way the Guide works?” whispered Arthur into the bundle of girl wrapped in his arms.
“Yes.”
“By hiding a set of instructions in the…um…software of the device?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it didn’t do anything until…” struggled Arthur.
“…until certain conditions were met,” prompted Random, “then the hidden subroutine shifted the Guide’s control of certain external forces…”
“…and gave the Vogon captain a nasty little surprise in his lunch! ‘Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?’ ” quipped Arthur.
“Yes,” averred Trillian and Random in unison. For the first time in their memory, the two adults witnessed a miraculous event. One overly frustrated teenage girl relinquished the uncertainty that haunted her and, with a firm certitude, decided to grin. It grew from humble beginnings. Squared off shoulders settled and a small sigh escaped into the air. Her lips, no longer pursed in consternation, quivered the slightest bit and turned up at the corners. Her furrowed brow relaxed and became a plain expanse of forehead. Arthur leaned down and planted a tiny kiss just below the dark shock of her hair.
“You’ve done exceedingly well, young lady,” he murmured.
“I just…I just wanted to have a place to fit.” It was as if she were still imploring, trying to explain an entire lifetime. “I thought the Guide would help me find where I belonged, so I talked with it about all kinds of things. The more it showed me, the more I became fascinated by how it functioned. After a short time, I saw I could do more than just interact with it in a question-response mode; I could actually understand its programming and influence it to some extent. Then I stumbled upon a section of code someone had attempted to hide, though they hadn’t been very subtle about it. It was a sequence of commands designed to nudge certain conditions into a narrower path of probability that would end in…” Her voice stopped as she choked back a sob and a horrid thought.
“What was it?” Trillian gently prompted.
“It was designed to guide events so Earth would be destroyed…permanently…and shortly before that, someone was to do away with one Arthur Dent of said planet.”
“But…” stammered the Arthur in question.
“Who…?” whispered Trillian, almost sensing the answer.
“I…was destined to be the agent of your demise, Father,” blurted out Random. She demurred and looked away from Arthur’s stunned expression, gazing imploringly into Trillian’s eyes, willing her to understand. “Don’t you see? I couldn’t let the only planet where my parents fit--the only place where I even stood a small chance of finding my rightful place--get destroyed. I had to find a way to prevent that possible ending, but I wasn’t sure what I could do to alter it, or even what I wanted the outcome to be.”
Hesitantly, Trillian asked, “What did you do, then?”
“It came to me as I considered my own situation and how I didn’t seem to fit. Even my name seemed to attest to the uncertainty of any probable outcome. So, I modified several lines of the code, from specific values into variables,” explained Random. “Variables with no particular significance or bearing on the formulas present in the program. I didn’t know how to erase my part in the events--to kill you--but by changing that function to a variable, I turned it into a probability with an infinite number of other outcomes.”
“Then, there wasn’t any chance of my getting killed in Stavro’s that night?” asked Arthur.
“Well, there were forty-two possible chances it could have happened, but the sheer number of other possibilities stacked the odds in your favor.” Arthur paled and had to sit down. Random pulled away from Trillian and stood beside her visibly shaken father, struggling to keep eye contact and convey her earnestness. “When it came to that moment, when the program called for me to shoot you, I did the only thing I knew that could save you: I acted randomly.”
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"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book. It has been compiled and recompiled many times and under many different editorships. It contains contributions from countless numbers of travellers and researchers."